Peak Iron empties out after the last class. The lights drop to half. The cleaning crew is not due for another hour. Andre Laurier locks the front doors and turns to find two of his regulars still on the open floor.
Amara Diallo stretches on the mats like she has all the time in the world, full curves soft under thin gym kit, dark coils framing a calm face that watches him without apology. Roxie James sits on the edge of a bench, honey-blond hair still big from the earlier session, pinup body on open display in a sports bra that does nothing to hide what she has. They stayed on purpose.
They have been circling him for weeks. Tonight they stop circling.
What starts as a late stretch turns into hands on him, mouths on him, and him between the two of them on the open weight floor where anyone walking past the glass could see. The risk only makes them hungrier. He takes them one after the other and then together—fingers, tongue, cock—until the mats are damp and the only sound left is breath and the wet slap of skin. They move to the locker room when the first warning chime from the night system goes off. Then to his office. He claims them both with words and body, tells them they are his after the doors lock, and they answer yes while he is still buried deep.
This is not a one-night mistake. It is the start of an arrangement. Two women who want the same man and are willing to share him. One man who keeps the lights low and the doors locked and takes everything they offer.
